


Drown here, in these wells of salvation

by ADyingFlower



Series: I'm only doing this because I love you [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Captivity, Conditioning, Dark Keith (Voltron), Isolation, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Games, Obsession, Subtext, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 16:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17687300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADyingFlower/pseuds/ADyingFlower
Summary: The door unlocks, and Lance waits with his heart beating a mile a minute for Keith to enter, to invade his fake privacy -But he doesn’t. All Lance sees is a pale arm sticking through the crack of the doorway, and then Keith drops a pile of folded clothes next to the door.Like Hunk or Pidge would do, if he forgot to grab clothes before hitting the shower so for them to avoid catching an eyeful. The thought has him choking on a sob, sinking deeper into the sparkling water.He almost feels smothered, like this, water up to his ears and silence except for the faintdrip,drip,drip, of the faucet leaking.Vaguely, he wonders if he can drown himself in the water. But no, he’s pretty sure self-preservation instinct would kick in before he got anywhere close, without the help of either pills or alcohol. And with Keith watching his every move, adoration apparent in every caress and term of endearment, he knows he’s not going to get anywhere close to those two things.(A week after his kidnapping, Lance tries to adjust to his new normal, and how to handle his obsessed, easily provoked captor)





	Drown here, in these wells of salvation

**Author's Note:**

> 2/12

Lance glares from the foot of the bed.

It’s been a week. A week since the cute boy at the club ended up being a cute _psycho_ and fucking kidnapped him. By slipping a roofie in his drink.

Keith whistles to himself over in the kitchenette, glancing over his shoulder to grin at Lance. The appetizing smell of bacon fills the air, but his stomach turns at even the thought of eating.

“I know you’re a fan of light things, but they don’t keep very well out in the desert heat.” Keith comments to absolutely no one. “So some eggs and bacon will have to do.”

He would say something nasty back, but the fucking bastard has him gagged.

Something to do with him needing to rest. More like Keith got annoyed that he would start screaming every time he heard Keith drift off into sleep.

Worth it.

Keith pads over after scooping the bacon onto some paper plates. Grinning goofily, he sets the plates on each side of the table with a small giggle.

A giggle. Like a child.

“If you behave, I’ll give you a huge treat,” Keith stops in front of him, kneeling down next to the bed so his head was level with Lance’s thighs, which he then proceeds to plop his head right down on with a secretive grin. “And believe me, you _don’t_ want to miss out on this.”

Lance glares at him stubbornly, but Keith seems immune to all social cues and just hums absently, stroking a finger along the seam of his jeans.

He shivers. Keith’s grin, if possible, widens even more.

“Up we go,” Keith grabs his wrists, and out of reflex more than anything, Lance tries to draw himself back.

Big no, apparently, as Keith’s face turns into a dark scowl. “Stop that,” he admonishes, and then slaps Lance’s nose lightly.

Like a _dog_.

He’s never felt so humiliated.

Quickly, as if Lance would bite him, Keith pulls the saliva soaked bandanna out of his mouth, weighing it in his hands while Lance works the soreness out of his jaw.

Then, the weirdo takes the disgustingly wet bandanna and fucking _licks_ it.

“Stop it!” He tries to flail for the bandanna, but the damn collar stops him before he can even move an inch forward. His kidnapper obviously had done his research - he spent all night trying to figure a way out, to no avail.

A soft leather collar wraps around his neck, ending in a leash tied to some point above his head. His wrists up to his elbows was in some kind of fabric contraption, keeping his arms close to his chest, while his left ankle was locked to the floor by a tight chain that led to somewhere underneath the bed. In other words, he’s so tied down it’s not even funny.

“Why?” Keith asks innocently, eyes big. “You taste good.”

Despite himself, Lance flushes. “...you’re fucking sick.”

Keith shrugs with a small ‘what can you do about it’ smile, dropping the bandanna on the bedside table and pulling out a key chain from his pocket. “If you behave yourself for breakfast, I have a surprise for you. But only -”

The instant his hands are loose, he punches Keith straight in the mouth. Lance scrambles to his knees, yanking at the where the leash is mounted above him. If he can just get this free -

“Fucking _shit_ ,” he hears from somewhere behind him, and then Lance is screaming as Keith grabs his hair and yanks him backward, sending his sprawling across the bed on his back, legs kicking fruitlessly in the air. “You...Bitch! I thought you were being _good_.”

Keith straddles him, eyes crazed and lip bleeding freely down his chin. “You fucking liar! I’ll kill you! _I’ll kill you!_ ”

“No! Get off -” His wail gets stuck in his throat into a choked sob as he feels something sharp digs into his neck.

A knife. Keith has a _knife_ against his neck.

He’s going to die, oh god he’s going to die because he provoked the psychopath sitting on top of him his family is going to cry god he’s already beginning to tear up -

“Don’t hit me, you’re not supposed to hit people you like.” Keith hisses out, pressing the knife deeper against his throat. Something wet hits his face - is Keith…crying?

“You’re not supposed to hit people you like.” Keith repeats, and now that Lance can see past his own tears, he’s stunned at the sight of Keith sniffling above him. “That’s what the internet said. Don’t you like me? If I fucking _slit_ your throat, will you like me then?”

The cold metal digs in.

“I-I,” Lance stutters out, hands loosely wrapped around Keith’s wrists. He doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t want to die. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, I like you, I promise! _I’m sorry_!”

The knife disappears, and then Keith’s arms are around him, folding Lance into himself. “Shh, It’s okay. I’m not mad anymore, I’m proud of you for saying sorry.”

For some reason, or maybe he knows the reason and he doesn’t want to admit it, Lance breaks down crying, throwing his hands over his face. Keith hushes him gently, rocking them back and forth on the bed, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth…

“There you go…” Keith murmurs, rubbing his back as the last of the sobs dry out of him. Lance still wants to cry, but he physically can’t, eyes sore and throat parched.

He doesn’t say anything as Keith helps him sit up and lean against the wall, not even when his kidnapper kisses his cheek, smearing a streak of crimson across his skin.

“I was gonna let you eat breakfast with me, but…” He looks longingly over the table, picking up one of the plates from the table and carrying it back over to Lance’s side. “Maybe next time, then.”

He wants to scream, he wants to beg for Keith to let him go. But he’s already gone through the whole list of things to ask on the first day.

Things like _when will you let me go_ , and all he got was _I don’t plan to_.

Or when he asked _can I please please take a shower I hate the sponge baths_ and Keith had just smiled and shook his head no.

And the infamous _why me_ which only got him a loving touch and and kind eyes.

_Because I love you_ , Keith had said.

A stranger, who he had to ask his name because either Keith never told him or he was so damn roofied he couldn’t remember. Everything after dancing at the club is just a giant blur, and the next thing he knew he was sick as a dog puking in bucket everything he’s probably ever eaten in his entire life, feeling like a cross between the worst hangover imaginable and the one time he had the flu.

And Keith was there, sitting next to the pillow and washing his face for him, carefully nursing him back to health for days while the drug ran through his system. It was really only yesterday he managed to get any strength really to start fighting back.

He regrets it, now.

Limply, he lets Keith feed him by hand, not protesting despite his hands being free in his lap.

The eggs are tasteless.

His neck hurts.

Lance barely notices when the plate is empty, only when Keith reappears by his side, cuddling up close to him with a rag pressed against his mouth.

“You got me good.” Keith idly comments, removing the rag to show Lance all the blood on it. “That’s a mean right hook, where did you learn it?”

He swallows. “....my brother.”

God, he wants to go home. He would cry if he had the energy to.

“Tell me about him?” Keith offers, but Lance shakes his head. Unperturbed, Keith continues on. “Luis or Marco?”

Lance heart speeds up, and the fog that’s been protecting his mind begins to recede. “Wha…”

How does Keith know about his brothers? Oh god oh god, Keith could hurt them he could easily hurt his family he would rather die than hurt them -

“I won’t touch them,” Keith interrupts his thoughts, squeezing his wrist fondly. “It’s not them I’m interested in, anyways.”

His thoughts slow down, but the fog is gone, leaving him tense and utterly exhausted as Keith leans into him in a parody of a lover’s gentle touch.

“Do you have to use the bathroom?” He asks, and Lance slowly nods. He does, though he doesn’t want to go if it means he has to do it in front of Keith.

Keith rehooks his wrists together, but releases his ankle and neck. Before he can even make to stand up, there’s the icy press of a blade on the nape of his neck.

“If you hit me again, I’ll cut off one of your fingers, got it?” Keith hisses out.

Lance whimpers, closing his eyes tightly. “I promise.” He whispers, and the knife is removed.

Walking slowly so as to not aggravate the already unstable Keith, he lets himself be led to a small door by the kitchen.

To his surprise, when Keith opens the door, he only motions for him to get inside and makes no move to follow him in, even unwrapping his arms once again.

“There’s no windows in there,” Keith must have caught his confused expression. “And the door locks from the outside. I’ve left you some of your face scrubs - I didn’t know which ones were important, so I bought all the brand names you had at your apartment. So take a shower, do whatever you need to do. Just knock when you’re done.”

With that, Keith closes the door, the sound of a lock clicking shut a moment later echoing around the empty bathroom. Lances wants to check - just to see if it’s _really_ locked, but he also doesn’t know if Keith’s just standing outside the bathroom door, waiting for him to escape.

Instead, he investigates the bathroom. The room, while smaller than his back home, has everything it needs. Underneath the small sink is a bottom cabinet which, to no one’s surprise _ever_ , is locked.

He has a feeling there’s something underneath there that he doesn’t want to know about.

The mirror above the sink is made of some kind of plastic, he deems after rapping his knuckles against the pane and feeling the dull thud all the way up to his elbow. When he walks over the toilet, he grimaces when he realizes the tank cover is gone, and there’s not even a shower curtain, despite it having the rod for it.

Keith went out of his way here to make sure there was no way for Lance to either hurt himself or Keith here.

Fuck. How many horror movies did Keith watch to learn all of this??

What doesn’t make sense is that the rest of the house doesn’t have this attention to detail. The knives in the kitchen are definitely still as sharp as ever, and Keith wraps more than enough bedding around him whenever he even _looks_ cold.

During his whirring thoughts, he does his business and then undresses himself (after looking for any kind of camera and failing to find anything). He really doesn’t want to deal with a shower without a curtain to block out the spray, so he settles for a bath instead, liberally adding the numerous bath salts Keith lined the bathtub with.

For a moment, he debates whether or not he should add one of the bath bombs Keith left for him on the counter top in a paper bag with a little note (which he definitely takes much joy in ripping to shreds), but in all honesty, he doesn’t think he’s ever needed to destress more than he physically has to right now. Lance already has a tension migraine building up in his head, and he needs to _think_.

It’s only when he’s sinking into the bright blue (coincidentally named Big Blue) water up past his mouth does he let his thoughts roam back on track.

All of this - it’s all clearly Keith’s attempts to win his affection. If Keith were just some classmate or a friend of a friend trying to get into his good graces, he would have found all of this extra effort cute, and perhaps even charming.

Now?

Now it just makes him sick.

Maybe…all of this is an effort to make Lance more comfortable? It would be far easier and simpler for Keith to supervise his bathroom visits himself instead of physically making the bathroom as harmless as possible.

But no, he made it safe for Lance to be left alone without risking escape, and then gave him privacy.

Well. It doesn’t do him much good to keep dwelling on it, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all of that, as Veronica used to say. Says.

He hopes they’ll find him soon.

-

“Hey Lance?” He stiffens at the sound of his, wondering if he still had time to dive for his dirty clothes strewn across the floor (though he’s been wearing them for a week, they’re stained with sweat and his skin crawls just at the thought of putting them back on.). “I have some clothes for you here, if you need them. Take your time, though.”

The door unlocks, and Lance waits with his heart beating a mile a minute for Keith to enter, to invade his fake privacy -

But he doesn’t. All Lance sees is a pale arm sticking through the crack of the doorway, and then Keith drops a pile of folded clothes next to the door.

Like Hunk or Pidge would do, if he forgot to grab clothes before hitting the shower so for them to avoid catching an eyeful. The thought has him choking on a sob, sinking deeper into the sparkling water.

He almost feels smothered, like this, water up to his ears and silence except for the faint _drip_ , _drip_ , _drip_ , of the faucet leaking.

Vaguely, he wonders if he can drown himself in the water. But no, he’s pretty sure self-preservation instinct would kick in before he got anywhere close, without the help of either pills or alcohol. And with Keith watching his every move, adoration apparent in every caress and term of endearment, he knows he’s not going to get anywhere close to those two things.

Eventually, he drags himself out of the bathtub, toweling himself off roughly. Glitter sticks to himself, in the creases of his skin and painted along his sides like an artist dipped a paintbrush of shimmering silver over him.

The clothes are obviously Keith’s, he notices when he pulls them on. The pants ride up above his ankle, and the shirt’s a little too tight around his shoulders. But they’re clean, and Lance lets out a sigh of relief when he notices the unopened package of underwear.

Small mercies.

He brushes his teeth with the brand new toothbrush Keith left on the counter top for him, and combs his hair. After several minutes of just fussing with his appearance, he stops, just staring at his expression in the mirror.

Lance looks tired. _Panda eyes_ , he would have affectionately said to Pidge whenever she stayed up too late. His hair sticks to his face, wet and unfamiliar (he usually always uses a hairdryer, but to no one’s surprise, all of the outlets are covered with some kind of plastic his nails can't pick off). His neck has several nicks from where the knife must have scratched too close, nothing worse than when Blue kneads him a little too hard, but they still stand out vividly against his skin.

Blue…He misses her. The other day, he took a really cute picture of her that he meant to send to Hunk, but he never did, and probably never will. Keith never said outright what he did to his phone, but just like his wallet and his keys, it’s been missing since he woke up.

And as hard as it is for him to say, just looking around the bathroom proves that Keith’s no idiot. He wouldn’t have brought something that can be tracked out here.

Soon enough, he knows he can’t delay any longer. Gathering up his dirty clothes, he pauses in front of the door, summoning up whatever courage the bath gave him.

Then he knocks.

It takes a few moments, but then he hears Keith’s faint hum of acknowledgement and the sound of his footsteps approaching the door. “Sweetheart, stand by the far wall, back to the door, okay?”

Lance straightens up his shoulders. He won’t…he won’t let Keith win like this. He has to at least try and fight. “Why should I?”

“Lance.” Chills wrack down his spine at how _different_ Keith sounds now. “Do what I say. We can go back to sponge baths, you know.”

No no no, that was humiliating, having to be held down while Keith scrubbed over his skin with a damp hand towel. Ineffective too, he still felt just as grimy afterwards.

And the bath gave him things he’s been dearly needing over the past week. Alone time. His piece of mind. Comfort, even in small ounces.

If he loses that, he’ll break before he can escape.

“...Okay.”

Despite Keith not saying anything, Lance knows he’s wearing that self-satisfied smile whenever Lance bows to whatever Keith wants instead of breaking. He does what Keith wants him to do, facing the wall with the clothes in hand as he hears Keith unlock the door.

“I knew you could do it,” Keith gushes, and Lance tenses as he hears the older boy walk up behind him. “Oh, just drop the clothes, I’ll get to it later.”

Reluctantly, he lets go, hearing them hit the floor as he keeps his gaze straight ahead.

Keith takes his now free hands gently by the wrists, and he hears something click and the weight of something heavy keeping them together. “Back to the bed now. Remember, I have the front door locked with the key on me, so if you hit me again,” a tug on his right pinkie finger, a hiss in his ear. “This one is the first to go.”

Swallowing heavily, he does as he’s told, and tries (and fails) not to feel bad about going along with what Keith tells him to do. It’s only when he’s back in the twin bed (that he’s been awkwardly sharing with Keith at night) with his neck and ankle back to being shackled, but his wrists free, that he notices the changes around the shack.

It looks like while he was busy in the bathroom, so was Keith cleaning up the place. All of the dirty clothes tossed around and dirty dishes are gone, and if Lance’s being honest, it looks like the floor got a good scrubbing too. Next to the bathroom door, right where there used to be a bunch of cardboard boxes, is a brand new bookshelf.

Keith notices his stare. “Looks pretty nice, right?” He brags, practically puffs up like a bird, eyes shining as he glances around the house. “I used to be too tired to get out of bed most days, but now that you’re here, I want you to have a nice house to live in.” Motioning towards the bookshelf, Keith smiles a bit... shyly? “And that’s my present for you. I used your own bookshelf as a reference point, but if you want any new books, just let me know.”

The subtle references that Keith broken into his house several times was not only terrifying, but worrying. How long had Keith been stalking him, and why did he never notice?

(That’s a lie. He’s been feeling a little uneasy lately, noticing little odd things here and there. His favorite shirt missing after a trip to the laundromat, finding his bed unmade despite making it just that morning, noticing his laptop logged in and running when he comes home early from class. But he brushed it off with excuses, that he must have just lost it, that Blue rolled around in bed, that Pidge must have needed something from him.)

“Oh…” He trails off, not quite sure how to respond to his kidnapper having bought a bookshelf from IKEA and building it for him. “Thanks?”

Either way, Keith beams at his response. “You’re welcome! And I know you hate wet hair, but I can’t give you a hair dryer when you’re alone, so I’ll do it for you from now on. You can just read, or whatever you want!”

Like a little kid seeking affection, Lance notes. But his wet hair _is_ bothering him, so he inclines his head. Keith lights up, scurrying towards the bookshelf and picking up a book for him.

Percy Jackson, he notes, flipping through the pages. It’s not his own well loved novel, with its dog-eared pages and bent spine, but it’s still its familiar and comforting words.

And so he reads, hearing the sound of the hair dryer kicking up behind him and the sensation of Keith’s finger raking gently through his wet hair. He shivers as Keith sighs on the nape of his neck, and passes it off as the chill of the AC blasting.

-

“You know,” Keith says that night, crammed against each other on the bed. He has his head resting on Lance’s chest, having said that _the sound of your heart is the last thing I want to hear before I fall asleep_ , arms wrapped around him. Lance has an arm strung over his shoulder, from lack of anywhere else to place it, and he’s repeatedly telling himself that he’s just at a friend’s house to curb his rising revulsion and anxiety. “I was about to let you write a letter to your family.”

Lance freezes.

“But you punched me, so maybe in another week or two.” Keith nuzzles into his chest, and in the darkness of the room, Lance can’t tell if he’s happy about it or not.

Stroking the bare skin of his neck with the back of his knuckles, Keith presses a feather light kiss underneath his jaw, right above the collar. “I love you, Lance McClain. Goodnight.”

He ends up staying awake well into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Next: Worship


End file.
